Ace and Dysfuncto
by The Madmadam
Summary: A clandestine story of mutual hate. But not a love story. Because I only ever had eyes for the ravishing Nancy Drew. Minor spoilers for VEN and SPY.


I met her on a Saturday.

She was beautiful in a "don't even think about it" sort of way, wore eyeshadow like unwatered acrylic paint in a manner that only enhanced her severity.

I wasn't really thinking about it, anyway. I've had a lousy past few months.

Even though she appeared to be staring at me, I didn't think anything of it until she moved to stand in front of me. There was purpose to her long, stiff strides. Her eyebrows were several shades darker than her hair, denoting a dye job or use of a wig. Being an artist served my eyes well (and even my peripherals, as in this case).

She cleared her throat.

Still I didn't look at her. I don't know why I didn't, just maybe that I was bored and I had to get back to work. My boss, Jonas Lundquist, was quite fond of giving his workers ten- and fifteen-minute lunch breaks. Fortunately for him, I was addicted to my work. Perhaps frescos didn't captivate me in the same way that mosaics did, but the quickness of the work appealed to me at least. Once I found a starting point, it became increasingly difficult to find a stopping point until the work was finished. Short lunch breaks suited me just fine, and my feet itched to return to the car that would whisk me off into the country and reunite me with my work.

"Hey," the woman said.

"May I help you?" I replied, avoiding her eyes. Eye contact showed a commitment, a commitment I was quite unwilling to make.

"No. No, I'm mainly here to help you."

"Not interested."

"Wow. Rude."

"I'm afraid I'm rather short on time. What is the purpose of this little visit?"

Briefly she looked around. Satisfied with the desolate landscape around the tavern, she continued. "You're Justin Beaumont, right?"

"Indeed."

"Good. Right guy. Word got around to me that you're interested in helping out with certain international affairs."

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't recall voicing, or thinking, for that matter, any such opinion."

"Conversation you had with a coworker in that very tavern," she nodded toward it, "about the tragedy of art acquired through shady means. You lambasted one Jonas Lundquist and, yes, you voiced—or, more accurately, announced—that he and several other homeowners of high repute were criminals of the worst variety. I believe you were intoxicated."

Oh. Right. I loved the work, but I hated my boss. I found that being away from him made it easier to forget my hatred of him, even if I could only get away for brief intervals such as this one.

"I've got to say, I'm surprised you aren't already due in court for slander with the laws in this country."

"Or that I haven't been fired, right?" I glowered at her. "Did you come here to lecture me or to blackmail me?"

"Neither. I'm just expressing my personal opinion that you're a dumbass."

I blinked several times.

"Look, this isn't normal protocol, but I'm dealing with some fairly time-sensitive material here."

"Concerning my boss, Jonas Lundquist?"

She stared at me, displeased. "Let's get this conversation out of the way right now. If you decide to turn turncoat and go tell him, just know that I've got way more credibility than you. He isn't going to believe anything you say."

"Noted."

"Okay." The perturbed look didn't leave her face. It occurred to me that it may have been the situation with which she was uncomfortable, not me. I've seen this look many times across card tables. She didn't want to overplay her hand. "I've had my eye on you for the past several months. And I find it pretty interesting that Pietro Mazzola is one of your card buddies. I also find it interesting," her eyes bored into mine, "that you have no other black market connections and that you spend most of your time alone. Not communicating with anybody, even Mazzola's friends."

I returned her stare, unintimidated. I wasn't a crook. I had nothing to hide.

Seemingly satisfied with my reaction, she continued. "Having connections with both Jonas Lundquist and Pietro Mazzola and no suspicious characters otherwise gives you a certain amount of value. And clearly you're passionate about art or whatever, so this is your chance at helping to reclaim stolen art. Justice. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Depends," I replied. "You still seem like the type of person who will get me arrested."

"Based on your previous behavior, you seem like the type of person who'll get yourself arrested," she shot back. "And that's the first thing you've got to learn. Subtlety."

I chortled. "I am not subtle. If you think I'm even capable of subtlety, you have the wrong person." Still, something kept me from turning to leave.

Picking up on this, the woman crossed her arms, eyes flashing. "So you'd rather go back to your abysmal existence of twelve-hour work days six days a week, two minute lunches, and bitching about your boss every time he's out of earshot?"

My lips drew inward as I considered this. "What types of things would I be doing?"

"Mostly the same stuff you're already doing. Talking to Mazzola, keep me in the loop. And a little something else I need help with. Small stuff. You start off as an asset to us. Then, if you're not completely useless, work your way up."

Although I tried to listen to the rest, my mind caught on "a little something else." "What's 'a little something else?'"

"Little bit of stealing. Doesn't seem like it would faze you."

Suddenly a thought occurred to me. I froze. "How do I know that _you're_ not working for Mazzola? That you won't take my help and turn around and put things on the black market where they aren't supposed to be?"

"Please." She scoffed. "Mazzola has no interest in you whatsoever. He hates you. He thinks you're a little shit who steals all his money in poker. He doesn't have enough time to devote to screwing you over."

Saying nothing, I continued to read the lines in her face.

"I work for a place like MI6, sort of. Recruiting people, mainly. Pretty good life, although if you mention me and Mazzola in the same sentence again, I'm going to get less happy."

I nodded. "All right, then." Art trained my eye for micro-expressions, little quirks of the face that showed a person's truths, negating the lies they spoke. She may have been a spy, used to lying, but this sixth sense of mine never failed.

"So. Are you in?"

"This is weird, and I don't like you."

"I don't like you, either."

"But I like what you stand for."

"Me, too."

Silence.

She was expectant.

"Fine," I said. Completely against my better judgment, I should add.

The muscles in her forehead relaxed. I thought this was a good sign, until she jabbed me in the chest with her finger. "Screw with me, and I'll chop off your balls."

"Noted." I replied evenly.

"What, are one-word responses your artist's prerogative?" She rolled her eyes. "So then we've got to talk about that Renoir. Provenance for it is wonky, and I'm almost sure that it got plucked off the black market. Probably put there by your buddy Mazzola. Word is, Lundquist's courting buyers for it."

"What?" I bristled. "They treat it as if—as if it's a commodity! It's a visceral treasure, to be cherished! Not to be handled and bid on like a trollop!"

She nodded. "See? This enthusiasm is why I hate you but trust you."

The world grew hotter around me, and I knew my face was turning red. Perhaps purple. Words could not express how torridly angry I was. Art bought and sold, like it _could_ be bought and sold. Like it wasn't priceless or irreplaceable to our fragile lives. "When?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Whoa, slow down, tempest. This is something that needs planning. Like a wedding. Think of it as your wedding. To the painting."

"Oh, I will," I seethed. In some vague segment of consciousness I detected she was joking, but didn't care.

"You're closer to the Renoir than I can get. So you need to grab the painting before Lundquist sells it. Then it'll stay in hiding for a bit while I figure out how to bust Mazzola with it and everything else he's put on the black market, make sure that they don't get illegally sold. Again." She paused thoughtfully. "In case you couldn't tell, I prefer working alone. But the sale makes this extremely time sensitive, and I can use a little help. Besides, I see something in you, and I'm being put under pressure for new recruits. You could get beyond asset status. With a little training, you'd make a good agent."

"If you say so."

"Yeah, I'm never wrong." Her head turned to my car. "Now go back to work. I'm sure you're late."

Swearing under my breath, I realized she was right. I hopped over the door and turned on the ignition, turning one last glance on the woman who was slinking into the tavern. "Oi!" I called after her.

"What?" she snapped.

"What do I call you?"

"Infinitum," she replied without missing a beat.

* * *

Admittedly I had been arrogant in thinking that things couldn't get worse than when I had met her.

In my defense, the robbery itself had gone without a hitch. It had been as simple as lifting the Renoir off the wall and bringing it home with me at quitting time. The success had lifted my spirits to the point where I'd forgotten my fury at Jonas Lundquist and the concept of "selling" art.

Unfortunately, with a few drinks, I remembered.

In an inebriated rage, quite inebriated even for a daily drinker such as myself, I'd hung the Renoir on my wall amidst a loud, broken rendition of "My Way." The next morning I overslept. Upon awakening and being unable to find the painting I'd just stolen, I had stupidly assumed that the police would certainly have trouble finding it, as well. It lay there for a night and a day before my tiny window, quiet in the sun, the flawless counterpart to my face full of feelings, which I somehow managed to hide at work that day.

Nevertheless, the rest was… well, obvious.

Now that the police were leading me out of my flat I was surprisingly cool, as if this were some silly dream I was having. Next thing I knew I was in the holding cell, still pseudo-dreaming.

"You've got a visitor."

Sharply I looked up at the heavyset constable guarding my cell.

"Says you owe her a wad of cash from a card game."

Infinitum strode into my view, wig of a different color than the last time I'd seen her. Red. She turned to the constable and grinned. "I'm Bridget Shaw. Good to know ye," she said in full Scottish brogue, sticking out a hand.

The constable smiled as they shook. "I'm sorry to hear that a charming lass like you got swindled by—ow!" He withdrew his hand.

"Oh. Sorry. These blasted nails! So unmanageable." She cut past the constable and tapped her foot at the door to my cell. After he opened it, she continued in. "This weather! So much sun, unlike my native Watten. I'm sure I'll burn."

Behind her, the constable stumbled back to his desk, nearly tipping the chair as he fell into it and started snoring. Infinitum's lack of surprise was rather impressive and certainly astonishing.

Then it dawned on me that she had orchestrated the whole affair.

She turned her eyes on me, and the cheeriness of her Scottish character died from them. "Hey," she said in her normal American accent.

I didn't have a response prepared for such nonchalance.

"K2."

"K2?" I repeated, puzzled.

"That's your name; don't wear it out. You seem kind of like a mountain man."

"Um… I'm 5'10."

"Good to know," she said, "but I'm talking proverbial."

"Ah." I paused. "I like it."

"I don't care," she responded. "That's what I'm calling you, and _I_ like it."

"You enjoy spoiling a good thing, don't you?"

"Uh-huh." She dragged out the word like caviar.

"Why the disguise?"

"Who blends in better at an English prison, an American or a Scot?"

"Where's your English persona?"

"Nonexistent. I can only have so many passports."

"Granted."

"Now tell me, how could you botch something as simple as that?"

"I, uh…"

"I mean, maybe this was a little ambitious for your first time, but… really, K2? Right in the middle of your wall? That's stupid even by normal people standards. Hell, it's stupid even by _stupid_ people standards."

My mouth contorted in several directions before my tongue finally decided on the truth. "I'd been drinking—"

She threw up a hand. "Never mind. Save the excuses, Dysfuncto. I can't keep you away from prison for this."

Perhaps I wasn't surprised, because the only reaction I had was the temptation to be sick. Waiting until she looked away, I swallowed several times and tried to convince myself that I _wasn't_ talking to my case officer right now. Thinking about it would just make it worse.

"My people are in D.C., so their jurisdiction doesn't stretch to here. I can pull a few strings for a plea deal so you have to serve _less_ time, but I can't get you off. And next time, can you please refrain from hanging the Renoir on _your freaking wall_?"

Irritation seeped up my stomach. "It's art, not money. At least I can appreciate it."

"Well, you know what you're not going to appreciate? A year in prison."

"So I'm really going to have to go, am I?"

She nodded. "Yep. Even if the agency could buy your trial, it's too visible. There's already been too much media over this, and it'll cause a fiasco in international relations. You'll be tried for theft, for which you can get up to seven years here. And the public doesn't like hearing that you're buddying around with black market art dealers like Pietro Mazzola—"

"I played cards with him," I cut across her. "Because you told me to." It was a partial truth, at least. Never mind that I'd already been doing so before she told me to continue with it.

Appearing to understand what I'd meant, Zoe jumped forward to her next point. "Although I don't recall telling you to be so indiscreet about it. What you were _supposed_ to do was recover the Renoir and other art stolen and sold through Mazzola. You fucked up, but hey. This is your first assignment. A bunch of people do."

I said nothing.

"Anyway—most everybody's against you, which makes my job harder. But I'm going to get you a plea deal, and you've got to take it. No loss, really. There's no way you're getting off scot-free, so trust me. After this, you really owe me a favor."

"Noted," I said, trying to infuse my voice with sarcasm. People told me I had a problem with insincerity sometimes.

"Look, at least they have you pegged as a common thief. If you _really_ blew it and they knew you're a spy, you'd be completely screwed."

"So you're one of those glass-half-full people?"

"Only way to be in this game. Besides, in your case I have to be because this is super inconvenient no matter which way you cut it, K2."

I couldn't help but smile at the use of my code name.

"Yeah, get enthusiastic about this stuff. You need to do a better job in the future, and enthusiasm is the quickest way to do that."

"I am an artist first," I replied, perhaps too haughtily for my own good.

Every choice word in every language glimmered in the look she gave me. My mind baked the image into a tessera, literalizing it, and it might've been beautiful were it not so terrifying. "But I am duly ashamed of myself," I added.

"Not helpful."

"I don't know what I can say that will be helpful."

"Then shut up." Her eyes narrowed on the constable, whose snoring was still going strong. Silently she left the cell and stepped over to the main desk, idly shuffling through the pile of things they'd seized off me.

This gesture angered me, and I opened my mouth to protest.

She sent me another one of those stinking glares, though.

After one last glance at the slumbering constable, she pocketed something and slipped back through the open door. It didn't occur to me until she returned that I could've technically made a run for it, but fortunately I was not one to do a stupid thing twice.

"I'm pretty sure I can whittle your sentence down to a year," she said. "That doesn't sound too bad, right? You'll come out okay."

"Well, I'm not there yet." My brow creased. "And what after that?"

"I might have another assignment for you," she replied.

Stunned, I didn't reply.

"No, you're not getting sacked," she said, reading my expression flawlessly. "I figure a year in prison'll teach you how not to screw up again." And besides, on this next assignment, I'll be around to babysit. Plus, it's in Venice, so," she thrust a book at me. "Got you a little present."

I looked down. " _Italian for Dummies_ ," I read.

"Which you've more or less proven." She pursed her lips and regarded the constable for a second time, considering. "Put it under your pillow. Learn as much as you can until they catch you and make you get rid of it."

I felt my brow fold. "Daunting."

"How so?"

"I'm not good with languages."

"Well, get good. Spies are bi and trilingual."

My thumb ran over the cover as my mind froze.

"Hey."

Tearing my eyes away from the book, I looked at her.

Her expression seemed a shade softer. "I know you can't afford Doppeler training. And prison probably sucks, not that I'd know it, since I haven't been there, but things'll be good after you get out. You'll be learning with the best."

"You?"

"You know it. And this latest assignment deals with—your favorite—stolen art. I've got to start prepping. Come up with covers, learn languages and accents, refresh my connections there."

"Sounds good."

"I'd ask you for ideas, but I don't really want to know any ideas from the same person who concocted the gem of hanging a stolen painting in plain sight. And the sad thing is I'm starting to respect you, so I might actually listen to you if I do ask."

"Well, I've always been fond of the name Colin."

She pursed her lips in consideration. "I suppose that isn't too terrible."

"Guess I'm not completely useless."

"Anything's an improvement on _Justin_. Such a boy band name. Wouldn't be caught dead with it."

I shook my head. "Every good thing."

"Ruined," she finished. "Okay. Colin."

"Colin Baxter."

"Baxter? Why Baxter?" Her nose wrinkled. "Colin's good, but that right there almost cancels it out."

"Almost," I emphasized. "Besides, won't it be easier to blend in if I don't have a showy alias?"

"Your name doesn't have to be showy, but it doesn't have to be hideous. Honestly, how can someone who has to have a good taste in colors have such a terrible taste in names?"

"I fail in many ways heretofore thought to be inconceivable," I replied, a bashful grin pushing up my mouth despite my attempts to smother it.

"Just my flavor of humor, K2. There may be hope for you yet." She patted my shoulder. "Take care of yourself in the big house." She produced my flat key from her pocket and jangled it in front of my face.

I realized that she must have picked it up when she went rifling through my things a minute ago.

"I'll take care of your stuff. Relocate it before your landlord tosses it out," she continued.

"Yeah." I shook my head and blinked, scrambling for a more appropriate response. I wasn't used to people doing good turns for me, especially when they gave all indications of hating my guts. "Thanks," I amended.

"Thank me later after I kick your ass into gear."

"You take care of yourself…" I trailed off, realizing that our knowledge of each other's lives was largely disproportionate, "wherever you are."

"Whatever, K-Mart." She grinned at herself. "Hahaha, K-Mart."

With that, she was gone.

* * *

Two years after being released found me doing renovation work in one of Venice's most opulent residential buildings, the Ca' Nascosta. When my phone began to ring, I (reluctantly) set down a few tesserae and drummed my fingers against the work table, picking up the phone with my other hand. "This is Justin," I answered.

Perhaps a little too loudly, since the blond Austrian journalist, Helena Berg, turned and looked at me oddly. I shrugged at her and waited for my case officer to snark back at me.

There was a pause. "No, you're Colin, remember? CO-LIN BAX-TER."

"Yeah, okay."

"Don't 'yeah, okay,' me, Dysfuncto. You're stressing me out and pissing me off."

"Noted."

"How are things going on that box?" she asked.

"I know," I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I know. I'm working on it."

"As you probably also know, you're late in getting it—"

"I know. I've been drowning in work at the Ca'. Really behind. Margherita could be worse than Jonas Lundquist."

"First reaction: Wow, that's saying something. Second reaction: Wow, I don't care. Third reaction: Wow, only you could manage to be behind on all of your projects."

"I prefer to refer to it as _both_ of them, actually."

"You're sure you can get it?"

"Positive."

"Because you haven't exactly been delivering these past few weeks. I need to know you aren't going to drop the ball again."

"I have a system. I'm completely positive."

"A system?" She sounded taken aback. "Are you a card-counter?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Why do you care, anyway, as long as I get it to you?"

"Touché. I'm just surprised I didn't notice it earlier." She paused. "You'd better have a better update when I call you again, or I swear I'm going to go off on you." She hung up.

"Who is that?"

I stumbled around to face Helena, who had asked the question with a tipped head and knotted eyebrows.

"My mum," I answered. "She's upset I haven't been writing since coming to Venice."

"Ah," she replied. After another second of a weird stare, she turned back around to her notebook and scribbled something.

* * *

The view outside the Ca' today was wonderful, almost wonderful enough to assuage my stress over Margherita's demands. With the sky's azure hue and splintered clouds stealing my eyes, it was little wonder I returned late from my lunch. Of course it was much wonder for Margherita, who not only managed to take Venice for granted but insisted she could put a price tag on the whole of it, as well. ("What were you doing, wasting my time just to look at the sky? It never changes. Non capisco!")

"Of course you don't understand," I muttered to myself, pulling out my phone to call Infinitum. Maybe she wouldn't want to hear my complaining, but at least today I could regale her with the story of an interesting arrival. A smile ghosted on my face as I thought of the American teenager with red hair so resplendent that Titian himself would have worshipped it.

"Wow," Infinitum said. "You're calling me for a change. And early, to boot. Why so eager?"

"Just thought I should tell you that someone else arrived at the Ca' this morning. A lovely American girl named Nancy Drew."

"Yawn," Infinitum replied. "I don't need to know about your personal life."

"Not merely that. You told me to keep an eye out for anything that seems strange."

"Is it going to get in the way of what we've got going on here?"

"I don't know. She asks a lot of questions. Not the type of questions that vacationing American teenagers ask."

"What do you mean?"

"She took an almost immediate interest in the robberies and started asking Helena Berg—a journalist—about our phantom thief practically as soon as she got here. And she's hardly been here long enough to know about the robberies. It's quite possible that she was told about him before ever arriving, and that could mean that she has a certain interest in the robberies and that's the true reason for her coming."

"Hmmm." Infinitum trailed off. "That could be a problem. Well, what can you tell me about her?"

"She has a boyfriend."

Silence. "That's the first thing you remember?"

"Yeah. Upstanding guy, name of Ned. Gave her a rather exquisite locket."

"You're going to have to do better than that."

"I haven't really gotten a chance to talk to her properly. She's been talking to Margherita for the last hour or so."

"Get a chance to talk to her properly. Learn as much about her as she seems to know about everything else. Meanwhile: K-Mart and Kestrel, sitting in a tree…"

"Kestrel? Is that her… you know…"

"Yeah. Code name. Oops. Oh well. Now I have an excuse to change it to something funnier."

"Sure she'll appreciate that."

"Pssh. She doesn't even know she has one, and I'm not supposed to know because I don't work for her organization."

"She has an organization?" There was something odd about this conversation. Infinitum didn't just let things slip.

Maybe now she trusted me.

"In a sense," she continued. "But it isn't mine, so it doesn't count."

"Mine, too," I replied.

"Hold your horses, K-Mart. You're an asset. Complete this assignment, though, and you'll be an agent. Then you can say that."

"You…" I stuttered away for a few seconds, struggling on the concept and the words. "You mean it?"

"Once in a blue moon you show promise," Infinitum replied quickly, justifying the notion. "And I've noticed that happening more often, so… yes."

My head began to spin in the most pleasant of ways, which usually took a bit of absinthe, so giddy I became over the future.

But by the time I'd gathered my wits enough to thank her, she'd already hung up.

* * *

A few hours later, an oddly-labeled box of chocolates arrived, confirming Infinitum's suspicions: the elusive criminal, Il Dottore, was indeed staying at the Ca'.

Of course, Nancy Drew was hardly a suspect. She was much too young, charming, and sophisticated to be a seasoned smuggler.

"You wish," Infinitum replied as soon as I called her up and told her that.

"She doesn't know much about Il Dottore," I explained further. "She came asking me about it. I tried to get her talking about it by pretending belief that the chocolates were hers, but she has no idea. That reaction was genuine. She doesn't know enough to be involved in Il Dottore's crime ring, and if she's not a thief, I don't know what. She's a little young to be a private investigator."

"I'm guessing you don't have much access to Internet," Infinitum said. "I've been doing a little research on our friend. Thinks she's a junior crime solver."

This stunned me into silence.

"This could get bad, and I need to know that you have things under control until I can get there."

"I'm doing my best. Margherita has me working long hours, so I don't get many chances to get out. I'm keeping people talking for now. Thought showing tesserae slides would be a nice icebreaker for conversation, but nobody seems to appreciate them."

"Of course they don't. They're not weird like you are."

"Thanks."

"Welcome. To get them talking, you have to talk to them about them. Take an interest in them. With Nancy it's easy enough. Your crush is your cover."

"Thanks," I said, more sincerely this time. "I'll try to keep Nancy close so I can keep an eye on her. She leaves the Ca' quite often, however."

For a while, I did a good job.

Should have known it wouldn't last.

* * *

"You poisoned her?"

"No, I didn't—"

"Why, K? _Why_?"

It didn't take Helena's glaring at me from her corner to tell me I did wrong. Nor did it take Infinitum's loudly scolding me. I winced and hoped Helena could not hear her from ten feet away. "She's quite delightful, and I simply wanted to do something nice for her."

"So what are your plans for the first date? The electric chair?"

"Actually, she has a boyfriend," I said stiffly, "which I seem to recall telling you."

"Well, congratulations. You've just made everything more difficult."

The next question I was almost afraid to ask, so I left a couple seconds' proximity for good measure. "Can't I tell her anything?"

"Have you completely lost your mind?" There was another pause, and very clearly I saw Infinitum throwing her arms up in the air, even with the four thousand mile barrier. "What is wrong with you? Did you sample some of those bad sausages before giving them to Nancy? God, you're infuriating!"

"Well, I thought, it never hurts to ask."

"On the one hand," she probably stretched her left arm out further, "international organized crime. On the other," after which she likely did the same for her right hand, "some humdrum romance. Which one sounds more important to you?"

"I grew up on the Beatles, so, love, obviously."

Her voice lowered to a hiss. "You are the. Worst. Spy. Ever."

"Maybe. But there was something odd that perhaps you should know about."

Infinitum sighed. "What?" she snapped.

"Her reaction. She seemed to be under the impression that someone had poisoned her on purpose, as if she presents a danger to someone. Almost as if she's been poisoned before."

"Interesting. But quit drawing attention to yourself with the poisoning and for god's sake, learn to pick out good food."

"Well, in my defense, one would think that the shop owner would know better than to sell them."

"Ditch the excuses, K2. I'm pretty disappointed in you."

After she hung up and stomped off, I returned to the Ca' and made the rather unfortunate choice of taking it out on Nancy, blaming her when my microscope went out. It would have served me well to remember that she wasn't the person who couldn't go a second without breaking things and screwing things up.

I was.

* * *

"Infinitum, I, uh, have some bad news," I told her in our next conversation. Considering where we'd left off, it was more than a little bit daunting.

"What?" she snapped.

"I just saw Nancy leave the Ca' dressed as you. Well, as one of your aliai. Samantha, specifically."

"Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. So now I have to fly out to good old Venezia early?"

"Looks that way."

"Why didn't you stop her?"

"I tried warning her. I told her there was nothing wrong with her real hair and that she didn't have to wear a wig."

"That's not warning. That's _flirting_. I repeat: why didn't you stop her?"

"It would've been too suspicious. As you know, she blew my cover a few hours ago."

"Yeah, _Justin_ , I know. Here's a hint: don't leave anything around with any of your names on it."

"I, uh, think she found out from the city dumpster."

"And what is that? Speculation?"

"No. I went through her things while she was in the loo and found a crumpled newspaper article with a mustard stain, detailing the whole Renoir debacle and featuring Justin Beaumont."

A brief silence followed. "Nice job, K2," she said, and her characteristic sarcasm was gone. "Jesus, who is this girl?"

"She's beautiful."

"Yeah. You've got to stop with that."

"Okay."

"Seriously, though. If I didn't hate her, I'd recruit her."

"And if I didn't love her—"

"You don't love her. You're just hung up. Anyway, she knows about me, and there's not much we can do about that. Now that she's blown both our covers, it's our turn to find out who she is and why she's here. Talk to her. Talk to the others."

"Helena heard her on the phone with Prudence Rutherford. I overheard her and Margherita discussing it. Also, Margherita told us that Nancy said she was birdwatching on the roof, and all we get here are pigeons. I'm a bit of an amateur birdwatcher myself, and believe me, there's nothing here on the mainland. San Giorgio has some ibises, but that's about it. And I'm sure that she has a pager."

"How are you sure?"

"I heard it beeping when she was in the courtyard coming up to the Ca' once, and she immediately went to her room. I tried listening to the conversation that ensued, but I couldn't make anything out."

"Wow."

I'd be insulted at the rare surprise in her voice if I weren't so proud of myself.

"You took our last chat to heart, huh?"

"Well, I don't want to be bad at this forever. I went into this type of work for a reason."

"You're all right, K2. And for however klutzoid you are, you are pretty great at not getting caught." She hung up.

A… compliment? From my grouch of a case officer?

* * *

"News, Justin." She sounded weary today. "You're leaving."

I blinked. "Leaving?"

"I need somebody in Milan. One Gina Scaramuccia is there, and if she isn't doing top secret security work for Il Dottore, she's sure as hell doing it for some crime ring. That woman's shady. And since I'm not allowed in the country…"

"You need me there," I finished.

"Yep." A pause. "I've got stuff on her. Small criminal charges. Spent a few days in jail each time before getting sprung. Sound suspicious?"

"Of course. But… Venice."

"Yeah, I'm still figuring that out. But I need you on Scaramuccia. Even though I don't have the connection between her and Il Dottore yet, I'm almost positive."

"Wait." My mind froze on an idea. "Nancy."

"That no good goody two shoes sleuth? What about her?"

"She's here for the same reason."

"Well, I gathered. Otherwise she wouldn't have booted me."

I bit my lip, unable to deny that the whole passport-blocking incident was unfortunate. "What am I going to do with Nico Petit's puzzle box while I'm not in Venice? I can pass it on to her and let her and the police make the bust."

Silence.

"Hello?"

"You've had some shitty ideas, K. That one is by far the shittiest."

"Do you have any better?"

"We are not bringing Nancy Drew into this—"

"She's working for the police. I saw her put a bug in Helena Berg's pen when she was in the loo."

"Anybody can get a bug."

"What about the pager? And what about the sixteen other instances Nancy's name has been in the headlines for solving crimes?"

"Seventeen," she corrected. "She also did some low profile work in England at someone's private manor. The fact is, I haven't met the woman, and I can't determine whether or not she's trustworthy."

I started to reply.

"And you, as much as you don't want to admit it, are biased. It probably doesn't make much sense to you, but I have my reasons, mainly influenced by past mistakes. I'm a recruiter, and I meet all potential assets and agents in person."

"Sometimes you have to break the rules to win the game."

"Wow. That's corny."

"It's true."

Infinitum sighed. "Okay, K2. I don't trust that alias-stealing shrew farther than I can throw her, but I do trust you. God knows why."

"You… trust me?"

"God knows why." She repeated.

"So I'll give her the box then."

"Yeah. Make it part of some big grand romantic gesture; I don't care. Just do it and get your stupid ass out to Milan before tomorrow."

"Will do."

"Meanwhile I'll stay here in D.C. and do what I can, keep licking my wounds."

"Oh, you got paid for the Melik. Why are you cross?"

"Because maybe I'm a spy first, like you're an artist first, and I value the assignment, not the money."

"My god," I replied. "You're not American at all."

"Oh, hush." I was sure she waved a hand. "I don't want money for a goddamn sapphire I didn't steal. Besides, it's not like I get to keep it. The agency will absorb the money because it was part of the assignment."

"What, you mean you can't buy me a locket to give to Nancy? What a shame."

"No, but after this assignment, I'll have just enough money to buy mouth-sized duct tape so you Shut. Up."

"Do they make it mouth-sized?"

"The normal two inches is big enough for your big mouth. If there's anything more annoying than you, it's lovelorn you. I mean, I'd laugh, since you're so bad at this romance thing, but that would be too easy."

"Ah. And you can't do anything too easy."

"Duh." She laughed despite herself, as did I. "So. Sparknotes. Get the box to Ninny Drew and get out to Milan."

"Good timing, too," I said with a lingering smile. "Margherita's about to find out that I haven't been using her suggested ghastly substandard materials on the Ca.'"

"You can't _breathe_ without the urge to piss someone off, can you? So contentious."

"I'm an artist."

"Sooooo not an explanation. Bye." She hung up.

* * *

"I screwed up again, Infinitum," I said, smiling and hating the subtle slur in my voice.

The bar across the street from my hotel was nearly deserted at 2:55 A.M. on a Sunday morning. In fact, it was just me, Infinitum, and a sleepy bartender giving us the stink eye. America wasn't my country, and so America's capital wasn't my city. In London, everybody understood that drinking was a necessity, and drinking until tomorrow came was a ritual. These D.C. chaps, on the other hand, cared more about the money they earned than the people who came in singing their problems, the very paragon of American capitalism.

This depressed me almost as much as losing Nancy a week ago when Infinitum ordered me to leave for Milan.

Since then, she managed to topple Il Dottore's ring, minus one crafty civil engineer. But Gina Scaramuccia turned up several days later in Milan, after which Infinitum told me to come crash in her city. D.C.

Now Infinitum sat at the bar next to me, eye makeup slightly smeared, twirling her empty glass. "Hey!" she addressed the bartender. "'S not last call yet, right?"

With a sigh so harsh his vocal cords were practically fused together, the bartender poured her another drink.

"It's okay," Infinitum said, turning back to me. "You didn't screw up. When Nancy Drew is involved, it doesn't count. In fact," she raised her glass and gesticulated with it as she spoke, "I'd make up a drinking game for how often that little bitch has screwed things up for me but I'm a little afraid of the results."

"Hey," I interjected, with the intention to defend the girl I loved. A stale next few seconds, however, told me I had nothing to say on that. "She's 5'7," I said instead.

"So?" Infinitum snorted.

"So, you can't rightly call her 'little.'"

Her laugh wasn't particularly loud, but it was grating. "I like you, K-Mart. What do you say? Work for me again and not as just an asset, anymore, but," she raised her glass again and this time held it relatively still, "as an agent? As in, actually working for me and MI6 will actually take an interest in your safety?"

"I think this sounds a bit like a trap. And I should've known that 'place like MI6' means MI6 exactly."

"It's not like I could just blurt it out the day I met you, K2."

"K2? That's not my name!" I chuckled. "What happened to 'K-Mart?'"

"You put on your big boy pants." She rammed her glass into the side of mine, and I was surprised it didn't shatter. "Cheers."

"You aren't a conditioned drinker," I noted. It amused me.

"K-Mart." She sniggered, still tacking speech onto her last sentence. "I work alone. Nobody to go drinking with."

"Well, I grew up in the pubs. Perks of a blue collar English lifestyle."

"Perks? Your liver's going to die, then don't come crying to me." Her round sharp eyes fixed on me. "K."

"Okay… I." I returned lamely.

She snorted. "'I?' For Infinitum? Do you want me to call you 'L' for loser, lame-o? My name's Zoe."

The blacks of her shadow softened as the light hit them, adding color back into the world of my career. "That's… oddly fitting."

She seemed to be expecting something from me. When she realized that I was too drunk and generally socially inept to pick up on cues (it took quite a while, although I was unable to count the minutes), she said, "'Nother assignment. Glasgow. Tag along. I need backup."

Read: I've had your back for the last few fucking years, asshole. I'm lonely, so why don't you pledge to mine for once?

"Scotland. Chock full of redheads there, right?" I said.

Aggravated, she sighed. "You've really got to stop pining over Nancy Drew."

"Well, another redhead in my life would be nice."

"God, am I going to be listening to this crap until you get a girlfriend? Because I swear I'm going to duct-tape your big fat trap."

"That won't be necessary. Besides, it's better than working alone, right?"

"Maybe by a hair. But don't be surprised if I try to swap you in for a girl sometime. Petrel, probably."

"Petrel? That INR Cryptologist? Isn't she straight?" I asked. "In fact, isn't she dating that famous New Zealand rugby player? Patrick something?"

"Whatever. I'm only settling for Leena since Miss Dagny decided to off and marry out on me."

"Zoe and Dagny, sitting in a tree," I sang. I thought the transition to an actual name would be difficult, having forever called her Infinitum.

Somehow, it wasn't.

She crossed her arms and pulled her lips inwards, glowering at me. "Inaccurate," she said simply.

"Fine. Zoe and Dagny and Leena, sitting in a tree…"

"Watch it, K-Mart," she growled. "Besides, I'm practically ace. Just want something pretty to look at."

"Wow." I teased. "It all comes out."

"Wow. You're the worst spy ever. It all comes out." She shot back.

I should've expected it. She gave as good as she got.

"But that," she continued, "is also why you're one of the best."

I double took. "What?"

"Look, you're so incompetent that no one will ever think you're a spy. They thought, 'No spy would hang a stolen Renoir on his wall and forget to take it off when the police came in for questioning.' They thought, 'No spy would accidentally poison a teenage international super sleuth when trying to woo her.' You are undetectable."

"Uh… thanks?"

"Yeah. It's a compliment. You don't have to be so Britishly reserved about everything, you know."

"And you don't have to be so Americanly blunt and rude about everything." I paused. "Oh, wait."

"That's right. I do have to be. It's just my way."

"You'll be insulting my intelligence until the day I die."

"Well, let's not forget, I'm not the one who hung Renoir on the wall and poisoned my would-be girlfriend, am I?" Zoe shuffled around in her handbag and produced a small, rectangular object.

"What's that?" I asked.

Silently she opened the package and tipped it over her hand.

Fifty-two cards slid out.

My eyes met hers. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah. I have to lie low here all night, and since I'm not sleeping with you, we need something else to do."

"No playing with money then," I muttered.

"Really? I've got the Melik money that I want no part of, and it's not like Nancy's going to accept payment for her own theft."

"This, my dear case officer, is for leisure. No money," I repeated. "Besides, we both know that the money will be confiscated by MI6."

"You mean, you won't be counting cards?" she asked, responding to the former part of my statement.

"Well, I wouldn't go _that_ far."

She laughed. "Thought so."

"Are you prepared for a solid night of loss?"

"Conceited, aren't we?" She flashed me a crooked smile. "Maybe I know how to count cards."

"More likely you know how to bluff."

"Shut up and deal."

Smiling myself, I shuffled the cards and dealt us.

"You know something? You've just completed your first successful assignment. I don't think I can call you 'Dysfuncto' or 'Rookie' anymore."

Pausing and laying down my hand, I looked up at her. "You never called me Rookie."

Exactly," she replied. Then burst out laughing a second later.

I didn't get it. She probably didn't, either.

We were both far too drunk.

A warm, fuzzy silence swam between us. "You're concocting some insult for me right now, aren't you?"

"You know it, K."

"I know I know it, Z."

She didn't respond.

My attention went to a large watercolor painting on the wall, a print of an Impressionism painting featuring a sprinkle of tiny girls and tutus. Probably a Degas.

"Hellooooooo. Earth to Justin."

Blinking, I looked again at her. In the low light and my compromised vision, it took a few seconds for her blurry form to come into focus. "Sorry. I'd have started with the counting and vanquishing you already, but—"

"You're still an artist first," she smiled knowingly.

I met her on a Saturday. She was beautiful in an "I've got your back" sort of way, wore eyeshadow like unwatered war paint in a manner that only enhanced her capability. I wasn't really thinking about it, anyway.

Because I was very drunk, and I've had a great past few months.

 **AN for this one was super long, so I'm cutting it down to the main points. Had a lot of fun writing this one (obviously), so hopefully that translates. It's great to be working with characters as clever as Zoe and as heartfelt as Justin.**

 **On Justin accompanying Zoe to Scotland: I imagine that he's the person whose texts appear on her phone, the one who says "I know what I'm doing, Z." So yeah, just a possibility.**

 **First person here for the first time in years, mainly to highlight the distance between Colin and Zoe (especially at the beginning), as well as Colin's tendency to live in his own head and in a way that doesn't make sense to a lot of people. (Artists are pretty much chronically misunderstood, right?)**

 **Zoe's code name is inspired by the meaning of her name: "Zoe" is the Greek word for life, namely the general phenomenon of it and the perpetual continuance of it. ("Bio" is another Greek word for life, but it targets the physical life rather than the "eternal" one.) Having done a little bit of research on my own name, which I share with Zoe, I thought it might be a nice thing to incorporate into this story.**

 **As for her overall character, I have a couple of authors to thank for steering me in the right direction: gwybodaeth's stories add a lot of insight into Zoe's career that have influenced this story, and actualzoewolfe created the flawless Zoe/Dagny ship. So both of you-thanks a bunch!**

 **Justin's ability to count cards was inspired by a piece of information that actually isn't from the game: the Her Interactive wiki page on his character describes him as a "genius." At first I didn't get this, and I scoured VEN for any reference to his genius without finding any. Then I saw that he had graduated with a Bachelor's degree at nineteen. Graduating a year or two early implies that a person is advanced, but graduating three years early seems to imply that he finished high school (or the British equivalent) quite early, as well, making it likely that he's a genius. And I thought: Colin plays a lot of cards; what if he could count them? If he is indeed a spy, I doubt he won the puzzle box just out of luck. More likely he was actively seeking it out and ensuring that he had the means to acquire it.**

 **Lastly, Colin is quite high-brow here. This is inspired by the way he speaks about his beloved tesserae. He really comes alive when he's sharing his passion, and a lot of what he says there is poetic. And I thought, "That's more him than any moment in the game, since his art consumes him and this is the only time he really feels like he can share it with anybody else."**


End file.
